Blood on the Altar
by xPhineasx
Summary: A job goes wrong and Sebastian takes a bullet to the chest. Thoughts like poetry, memories like dreams, dreams like nightmares, and at the center of his shattered web of thought is Jim Moriarty. Set in the same continuity as Acclimating to the Devil.


Blood for the Altar

Moran/Moriarty

Rating: M

Notes: Set in the same continuity as _Acclimating to the Devil. _

_A/N: _So I wanted to write a little more poetic kind of MorMor fic, since my last one felt very cut and dry in the prose style. This is the strangeness that was produced.

X x x

Sebastian had to admit, there was something rather poetic and calming about driving through the American Southwest, leaving Vegas in the rearview mirror. The stars were bright and small, frigidly whizzing overhead in the warm night as they sped down the highway with the roof of the car down.

Jim had stolen them a convertible, a sleek dark red one, the colour of blood, because stealing it was more exciting than just buying one. Jim was sitting on his knees, his shoes kicked aside, bare feet pressed into the back of his chair. He was leaning forward, hands on the dashboard, letting the wind run through his hair. If they were in a wreck Jim would surely be thrown from the car and killed, and that would be the end the world's only consulting criminal. But Sebastian had no plans on crashing. The highway was dark and empty, and for a moment it felt as though they were the last people on Earth.

If he closed his eyes he could imagine that the whole world had burned to the ground, and they were alone in this desolate, hostile, beautiful place. He rather liked that idea.

"So, we get to LA, take care of this business with Rodriguez, and then back to London, yeah?" Sebastian asked, breaking the steady silence. "Be on a plane by tomorrow noon."

Jim was still staring up at the stars with childlike wonder. "We should go to Disneyland. Blow it up maybe?" He said in a dreamy voice, the Irish thick in his accent. "Kill Donald Duck. Maybe I'll pick up a souvenir for Sherlock there, yeah? A Mickey Mouse hat, covered in blood. I could mail it to him. I bet he'd like that."

Sebastian furrowed his brow but didn't say anything. Jim was in one of his weird moods, and it would pass soon enough. Jim had to much destructive energy, but he normally directed it towards productive business ventures; passing off fake paintings as real, pulling strings with Chinese smugglers, wrapping innocent people in Semtex for a laugh, so on and so forth.

He was both a genius madman and a child. Jim was too smart, with too many thoughts in his head. Too much electricity whizzing from neuron to neuron, ready to drive him insane. So Sebastian let him silently plan blowing up Disneyland and tormenting his pet detective, and knew that Jim would forget about it soon and move his attention to more profitable uses of his madness.

Sebastian just focused his attention on the road, the comforting and persistent sound of the road noise and the endless dark that hugged the horizon. There were no other cars in sight, and the night was silent. He smoked as he drove, one cigarette after another. The nicotine hummed through his blood and kept him alert. The smoke trails spiraled around him until getting thrown up into the night by the wind.

Eventually Jim got bored of the stars, sat back and hugged his knees. His head lolled to the side and rested on the window of the car. He was idly chewing on his thumb. Slowly, silently, he slipped into sleep. All his energy simmered like ashes in a day old fire, with subdued and deceptive quiet of unconsciousness.

They still had a few hours until they reached LA, and then the world would be set on fire again. Jim would wake up, full of energy and blood lust, ready to break the world like it was a disappointing toy on Christmas morning. But for now there was only the open road, the stars, and the soft breathing of the madman in the seat next to him for Sebastian to enjoy.

_Lions in cages, tigers in jungles, cities on fire, the devil in Westwood. Running, sleeping, breathing in the smoke, breath, breath, aim, breath, bang. Light and stars and dark deep currents under the ocean where the monster fish dwell. Hunting shadows in the dark. Dreams swirl in and out of consciousness and Sebastian finds his peace in the copper smell of blood, and the smile of an utter madman._

_ Jim at play is terrifying. Jim in anger is worse. But Jim at peace, like a tornado idling, is peaceful and beautiful and impossible. Sebastian yearns for it in ways he can't really say. So he runs, and breaths, hunts, bleeds, listens to the Bee-Gees and Elvis in his car and smiles at the silences. _

Los Angeles sprawled out in front of Sebastian in the early morning light. They stopped at a McDonalds, ate their truly awful and disappointing breakfasts, and went straight to the warehouse.

"Now, remember, Bastian, don't speak unless it's me asking a question. You're just here to drive the car and look pretty," Jim laughed as he drank the last of his disgusting fast food coffee.

He dropped the cup on the ground and giggled. "I'm such a litter bug," he said as if it were his greatest sin. Sebastian can't help but chuckle. He felt on top of the world. He was buzzed on nicotine and caffeine and sleep deprived, but he felt good despite it all.

Jim straightened his tie. "Show time."

_ Sebastian guards the door, and the girl in the chair is sobbing. Jim has, of all things, the Backstreet Boys playing on the speakers as his hands roam over a wide collection of knives, screw drivers, and hammers. Show me the meaning of being lonely. "I'll tell you, I'll tell you. Please. Please. Please." The devil laughs and the turns the stereo up. I want it that way. He'll get his answers, but he wants his screams first. _

_ Fingernails, and clumps of hair, and people really don't need two ears, do they? Laughter, laughter, smoke, and ash, Larger than Life._

_ Gods need sacrifices, in blood, in tears, in screams, in Semtex. Whispered adoration and terror to sate the divine appetite for destruction. Breaking eggs to make an omelet. Burning down the kitchen to save the world. Torching the world to appease Jim Moriarty. Sebastian wonders if there will ever be enough. Food is just an afterthought. Jim Moriarty lives on blood. _

There was a moment of silence before the first shot was fired. The air felt like another stupid business deal about to go horribly wrong. There was the slightest pause, a sniper on the roof drawing a breath.

Sebastian shoved Jim to the ground hard just as the first bullet tore through his chest. One more in his leg. One in his shoulder. Shitty snipers. The smaller man gave a yelp as his hands were scraped and bloodied as he hit the pavement, but was otherwise unharmed. The blinding pain ricocheted through Sebastian as he fell to his knees, violated by the tiny deadly lumps of lead. The bullet had grazed his left lung, and he could taste the coppery twinge of blood in his saliva. It took all his strength not to collapse instantly. Sebastian had been shot before, but a bullet in the abdomen always hurts. Familiarity did nothing to numb the pain.

"Sebastian!" Jim shouted as several more shots struck the pavement. He was curled up on the ground where he had been shoved, hands over his head. "You're supposed to keep me safe! Sebastian! Kill them!"

"Yeah, I know," Sebastian growled through gritted teeth. His head was beginning to swim, and his hand was shaking, but he knew where the gunmen were now and he had the small semi-automatic in his hands. He tried to steady his aim, still on his knees. He fired off five shots in quick succession, the kick back from the small gun sending fierce and instant jolts of pain up his arms. They wouldn't be clean kills, but he had seen the little burst of blood after each shot. The gunfire from on high stopped.

"That naughty, naughty Rodriguez boy had people shoot at us! This whole thing was a trap. Damn Americans!" Jim stood up and dusted off his jacket. He had recovered quickly. He always did. "Well, I suppose we will have to make him pay for scaring us like that. You'll need to kill him. You were a bit slow on the return though, Sebastian. What do I even pay you for?" The man turned and looked at him.

Sebastian dropped the gun, his hand shaking too badly to hold it anymore. His vision was blurring horribly. "Jim...before I do that...I might...need a doctor," he said through gritted teeth. Blood trailed out of the corner of his mouth.

"A doctor?" Jim raised his eye brows like he didn't understand. "But why on Earth do you need a doctor? You...'" he groaned. "Bastian, you didn't? Oh, how sloppy."

"Yeah...sorry," Sebastian croaked out just before his vision went black and he was swallowed by stars.

_ Sebastian, only 9 years old, sits on the floor of his brother's room and reads books about rainforests. He reads about the canopy, about bromeliads, about the Nile river, the Amazon, and India. He reads about the great big cats, how they move, how they hunt. He closes his eyes and imagines. It feels so wild there, the constant danger and constant noise; and Sebastian thinks it is almost peaceful._

_ Sebastian, twenty-nine, sits on the floor of Jim Moriarty's flat and cleans his sniper rifle. He runs his hand over each piece with care; the stock, the barrel, the scope. He can hear Jim sitting at his compute;, chuckling, typing, plotting. He closes his eyes and it feels the same._

There was darkness, and heat, cold, and softness. The sensation of flying, or maybe falling, and always, always the pain in every breath of air. Little stars of pain going super nova in his chest with a pop, pop, pop, and Sebastian almost thinks he can feel someone dragging him up stairs. The smell of cigarettes and unwashed sheets, like a cheap hotel room. Then it goes all black again.

"When will he wake up?" The words were fuzzy around the edges, and carried a very clear threat. Whatever words followed could determine a man's fate. Sebastian felt like he was floating in an ice bath made of pain.

"I...I don't know," a whimper. Words spoken through blood and fear. "I've done all I can. He has a punctured lung it looks like. If...if I could get him to a hospital maybe, but otherwise...I don't..." The sound of a gun being cocked. "I don't...know if he'll survive the night! I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm trying." Begging is such a revolting noise. "Just let me take him to a hospital! Please. I don't have the equipment here!"

"Fine. A hospital it is. Shame though, you can't come. You know too much." A gunshot. It all goes dark and soupy again.

_Sebastian broke his foot at school. He dropped a box of books on it by mistake. He didn't scream though, even when the nurse pulled off his shoes, and all his toes were mangled and covered in blood. His brother had nearly fainted, but then Robert always was a delicate older brother in his way. It was a good thing, Sebastian thought, that Robert wasn't there to see himself die. It would have made his brother sick to see all that skull and brain mixed with blood on the floor. Better for Sebastian to see it, because it would only crack, not shatter him. Better for Robert to be dead and miss the show. _

_ Sebastian breaks other people's feet now (and fingers, and ribs, and skulls), and never makes a noise. Jim just laughs and laughs, because he likes the idea that there is someone else in the world that, like him, simply doesn't mind the pain of others. _

Sebastian's thoughts were swimming through something dark and heavy. It felt like pudding, or mud, and it smelled like citrus cleaner. He tried to open his eyes, but only managed to slit them. The heaviness remained, unable to be shaken. He felt drugged. He probably _had_ been drugged, he realized. Sometimes Jim did experiments with various poisons, narcotics and anesthetics. He didn't always tell Sebastian before making him a lab rat. He was having a hard time remembering what had happened. Had that little fucker actually drugged him?

"Ah, Mr. Gilstone. I see you're waking up now," a pleasant female voice said. "You're going to be just fine."

Slowly Sebastian's thoughts were beginning to shake themselves into line, but not much was making sense just yet. He let out a small groan.

"Don't you worry. You were caught up in a gun fight. But you are ok now. Your brother is just down the hall getting some food. I'll let him know you're waking up. He'll be pleased."

Sebastian didn't have a brother. Well, he used to have a brother, but Robert was dead, had been dead for nearly 15 years. So who? His thoughts were struggling against the drugs in his system, trying to find some clarity in the overwhelming fog that swirled through every breath. He gave another groan and managed to open his eyes more.

He was in a hospital room. He had been in plenty of hospital rooms before, all over the world. This one was clean, white, and friendless. Damn. Sebastian wished he could remember what happened, but his brain just couldn't get it together yet. He was sure this was not St. Bart's though, and the nurse had some kind of accent. America then? That sounded right. They had been in America. He and Jim.

"Horrible luck, getting all banged up while on vacation," the nursed said in a comforting voice. "Don't you worry though. Your brother was able to tell the police all about your incident. Everything is fine now." He tried to ignore the woman. Her words were distracting him from what few thoughts he could pull together. He and Jim. In America.

A spider web of panic laced through him. Jim. He wasn't sure where the man was, and he could only imagine how angry he was with him. What good was he as a sniper or chief of staff when he was in a drug coma in some American hospital? He tried to get up. He couldn't stay here. He had to find Jim.

"Now, now, honey, don't try to sit up," the nurse said and pressed one of the dozens of buttons that beeped horribly next to his bed. A wash of drugged numbness washed over him. "There you go. Some morphine will do you good. Rest." Despite his mental protests, he was dragged back down into an inky sleep.

_'Come now, 'Bastian. I know you want me' Laughing. Laughing. The devil grins, sits on his kitchen counter in nothing but a too tight pair of pants and spreads his legs. He is damp from the shower, pale, wet skin begging to be marked. He does, he does want him, but he feels like the devil is making fun of him. _

_ The devil takes a knife off the counter, cuts the last of his own clothing off, sits there, naked, with a burning erection. "I'm not going to beg for you, 'Bastian. Now, come here, and take what you want." The knife glints against his skin, cold on hot, steel on flesh. Sebastian's neck burns. To turn dominance into submission, what a clever trick. Trickery, trickery, but Sebastian can't resist. _

_ He buries his cock inside the man, nestled inside his skin, pounding into his flesh. Offering up __his body to Jim, giving in to his most primal lusts for Jim, biting and thrusting and with a groan spilling himself into that warm little body at Jim's orders. More animal than man, more tiger than himself, tasting the salt of the man's skin, licking his own cum off the devil's thighs, feeling Jim's fingers on his scalp, hand gripping his dog tags like a leash around his neck. It's like being tamed, being broken, being captured. Like a sacrament, like a ritual._

_ Jim slips on his knees and takes Sebastian's cock in his mouth, and Sebastian's mind goes blank. There are teeth, and moist hot tongue and all his self control is tongue, small and hot, running along the tip of his cock, and he laughs as Sebastian cums again, spits the cum on the floor and tells him to clean himself up. The ritual completed, and Sebastian will never own himself again. _

Sebastian woke up when the nurse came back. His head had cleared enough for him to really look around. "Where-" he croaked, his throat dry.

"Ah, Mr. Gilstone," the nurse smiled at him. "Look, Jimmy, your brother is awake."

Sebastian turned and tried not to groan. Jim was sitting on the chair next to his bed. This disguise was a fairly good one, but Sebastian had seen it before. It was his typical tourist get up. Tank top, light jacket, some silly baseball cap, and a big doe eyed expression. "Hi, Peter," Jim said with a nearly convincing smile. "Miss? Can we have a moment?"

"Oh, of course dear. The Doctor will come around in about an hour and check on you. If you need any more pain killers, you can just press the button on the morphine pump. It should send you off to sleep," the nurse said with a gentle smile and left the room. The door clicked behind her.

"Peter?" Sebastian croaked. The fog was beginning to lift, thinning in his mind.

"Peter Gilstone," Jim giggled. "It's one of your alias' remember? Don't worry about it. You have all the proper identification." He giggled again. Sebastian nodded at that. Jim had made him several sets of fake I.D's just in case when he hired him. It made sense that he would use them to get him into a hospital. They didn't want the cops to barge in, hot on the trail of Sebastian Moran, the second most dangerous man in Britain while he had multiple gunshot wounds and was doped up on enough morphine to take down an ox. Better to play the role of Peter Gilstone for a while then.

"I brought you a get well gift." Jim held up a small stuffed tiger holding a balloon which read 'It's a Boy!'. "They didn't have any that said 'Hope you don't die from a bullet wound' sadly."

"Seems like a terrible oversight, this being LA and all," Sebastian croaked. Jim laughed at that, genuinely. "Sorry, Jim. I should have seen those guys sooner," Sebastian apologized. He had fucked up.

"Mmmm yes. But, Daddy is forgiving, since you woke up from your coma." There was a glint in his eye that Sebastian was having a hard time placing. "Now, heal quickly, darling. I want to leave very soon. Oh! I know what will help! More Morphine!"

"No, Jim, I-" but Jim had already hit the button, and the morphine was already sloshing into his blood stream. Sebastian sagged slightly and had just enough time to mutter "you little shit..." before passing out again.

_Iraq burned around him. He sat in the ruins of what used to be some little town, sniper rifle in hand, knife at his waist and waited. He did so much waiting, so much sitting, so much thinking about not wanting to think. Burning, burning under the sun so close it burned everything. Hunters wait, killers wait, tigers wait. _

_ London drowned around him. Dingy flat, full of mold; dim alleys, full of fog. The Thames bleeding onto the streets and the rain that never seemed to end. He was waiting, shaking from withdrawal. Waiting for another fix, waiting for another joint, waiting for another beer, waiting for another fuck and quickly getting none of it. Waiting. Waiting. _

_ His mother had told him that idle hands are the devil's plaything. He was idle. Waiting. Jim Moriarty was an inevitability then, wasn't he?_

Sebastian was glad to be out of the hospital. He wished it wasn't so sunny though. The light burned his eyes from too long under artificial lights. Stupid LA weather. Sebastian always felt more comfortable when it was overcast. There were fewer shadows that way, easier to hide.

He allowed himself to be wheeled outside in a chair by Jim, humming happily. Sebastian had a feeling that Jim's happy little mood would end just about the time that their facade as the brothers Gilstone could be dropped.

Sebastian sagged with relief when they got into a cab, and not into some stolen car. Jim simply couldn't be trusted to drive, especially in America where he insisted on driving on the "correct" side of the road and put them in constant danger of a head on collision. The car ride seemed to take too long, the long sprawl of the city stretching on forever and ever.

Jim was restless, tapping his fingers and feet endlessly. "Maybe..." he said too softly for the cabbie to hear. "When I'm done with London, LA could take a torch."

"...so, what happened to Rodriguez?" Sebastian asked softly.

"I plucked his eyes out with a fork, sewed his lips shut with yarn and tossed him into the sewer, actually," Jim said smiling. Sebastian chuckled at that. Laughing hurt though, so he had to stop.

_Jim running his fingers through Sebastian's pubic hair, eyes half lidded, pads of his fingers on Sebastian's skin. Both of them covered in sweat, cum, and fresh bite marks, sedated, at rest. Sebastian was smoking, the smoke trailing out of his mouth. Clean air in, dirty air out, breath in, breath out, burning tobacco and ruined lungs. _

_ "Mmmm. Your hair is getting rather unkept down here," Jim said, fingers lingering in the sandy curls. Sebastian's cock twitched under the minor attention. _

_ "Mmm. I'll trim in the shower, if you like," Sebastian said, breathing corruption. His body is more Jim's than his own now. He had been claimed, been owned, and he doesn't care. _

_ "No need!" Jim cried in a sing-song voice, and then there is pain as Jim rips at the hairs. Sebastian yowls, curses, mutters 'you little shit' and 'you stupid fuck' as his groin burns in pain. But Jim is all about the pain, and he laughs and laughs and laughs. Sebastian shoved him, but can't stay mad, never could. He breaths corruption; he breaths Jim. _

They got to the hotel, climbed the stairs slowly, and Sebastian was winded by the time he got to the bed. He sunk down onto the pillows and breathed as deeply as he could. He was still sore and bruised. As soon as his breathing was back to normal, Jim was there, on his chest, crushing the wind out of him with a knife pressed against his throat. Normally Jim's weight didn't bother him at all, but normally Jim's knees weren't grinding into his still healing wounds.

"Well, well, Bastian. You've cost me a lot of time now. What do you have to say to daddy, eh?" There was danger in his voice. "You've made my month very, very boring. So dull. I've just been dying, Bastian."

"You could have left me, Jim," Sebastian said in a strained voice, trying not to sound as pained as he was.

"I should have." The knife pressed harder against his throat. "A bloody inconvenience. You should be ashamed. I need a sniper, 'Bastian! Not a bag of meat that used to be a sniper!"

"Sorry." Pain was threading through his chest. He wished Jim would get off him, because damn it hurt. He knew Jim wouldn't actually kill him. He wouldn't have laid around LA for a month for him to get better, only to slit his throat back in the hotel. As changeable as the man was, he valued his time better than that.

Jim tossed the knife aside. It clattered to the floor. "Yes well...don't let it happen again, Bastian." Jim placed his hands on Sebastian's chest gently, increasing the pressure on his bandaged chest slowly. "You're my sniper. My chief of staff. My Colonel Sebastian Moran. You understand that, don't you?" There was a growl of possessiveness mingling with anger in the man's voice.

"It's not like you couldn't replace me, Jim."

Jim snorted. His eyes were dark and dangerous. He leaned down, their noses touching. The pain was screaming in Sebastian's chest as more of the man's weight burned on his wounds. "What a boring inconvenience that would be," he whispered. "You are mine, Sebastian. It would be so much work to replace you," he whispered and brought their lips together.

The kiss started deceptively slow. Jim curled his fingers around the base of his skull, tipping their heads together. His tongue slipped into Sebastian's mouth, running over his teeth, caressing his tongue with his. Slowly the kiss became hungrier, more teeth, more biting, Jim's fingertips pressing into his scalp, pressing their bodies together desperately. The still healing bullet wounds were writhing in pain.

When Jim finally pulled away to breathe Sebastian was completely winded, dizzy from the pain in his chest and the lack of air. "Sleep well, Bastian. We're getting on a plane tomorrow morning," Jim said and slipped out of the room.

_He remembered the tiger. A great beast, blood matted in her fur, snarling at him from the bloody drain he had followed her into. Pupils dilated, breathing soft, too close for a gun, so his hand grips the knife. Waiting, waiting, stalking, breathing, blood. It took three men to drag her back to the village to be skinned once she was dead. They called him a hero to his face; a demon to his devil. Tiger killing pale man._

_ "Was the tiger you killed bigger than that one?" Jim asks as they stand against the railing in the London Zoo. Some Zoo bred pussy cat lay in the sun, asleep. _

_ "Bigger. Much bigger," Sebastian tells him, and he can see the approval, and the hunger in Jim's eyes. _

_ All Gods need a high priest. The one who communicates the will of the divine to the common people, the one who wields the sacrificial knife, the one who understands the nature of the God. Chief of Staff. Colonel Sebastian Moran; High Priest for Lord of Death Moriarty. Blood, blood, and the stink of death are the incense for his altar. _

Sebastian woke up in the middle of the night, his chest burning. The hospital gave him some pain killers, but he had no idea where Jim stashed them. Vicodin or Tramadol, he couldn't remember, but he wanted them.

The moonlight poured through the window of their hotel, even brighter, it seemed, than the city lights. All light is starlight, his brother had told him once. There are stars, and the sun is a star, and the moon reflects the sun, and all our electricity is possible because of the sun. Dams, and coal, and wind power only exist because of the sun. All light is star light, however processed. Robert had liked little poetic thoughts like that. So in the light of stars, Sebastian looked around, hoping to see a pill bottle on his night stand. No luck.

Jim was curled up in the bed next to him, so close that once Sebastian noticed he was there he could feel the warmth of Jim's skin against his. Jim was laying as close to him as he could without actually touching him.

Sebastian stared at the man for a long time. He looked so peaceful like that, curled on his side like a cat. Jim's hand lay a mere centimeter from his own, looking lonely. It was hard for Sebastian sometimes to keep his mental imagine of Jim straight in his head. He was a spider, the devil, cruel and merciless and Sebastian knew all of that. Yet..._well._

Sebastian carefully, trying not to hurt himself further, wrapped his arms around Jim, pulling him close against him, and for a moment he could imagine that they were the last people on Earth.

X x x

List of songs that helped inspire this fic:

_Flaws by Bastille_

_Sail by Awolnation_

_Lions in Cages by Wolf Gang_

_Breathless by Dan Wilson _

_Silver Stallion by The Expendables _

Thank you for reading. :)


End file.
